Party of Five
by urosuki
Summary: "Well, is there room for two?" Stan's eyes widen at the other male. He begins to feel irritated; it's going to take a lot more than a little reverse psychology to persuade Stan not to commit suicide.


Hello everyone! It has once again been a while! I have another story, contrary to the summary, I am going to try to make it comedic. I want to incorporate a bit of Style into it, but I also want to incorporate Bendy. Out of those two pairing which would you like to see, or would you rather not see a pairing at all? I am going to attempt to incorporate more characters into the story! I am going to work on updating Ghoulfriend next, Enjoy! :p

December 24th, at exactly 10:00 PM- this would be the date Stan Marsh would cross over to the afterlife. This Christmas Eve, he will be gifting the Earth with one less soul in the human population. He exhaled anxiously as he surveyed the festive LEDS that illuminated the frozen over snow that slickened the ground. Tonight is the moment he's been waiting for all of his life. He will never have to feel the dreadful sadness that depression created; like poison, it could dispel the life right out of you. He decided to give his muddled apartment a deep cleaning, attempting to dust every nook and cranny. Stan thought it was the least he could do for the person who may potentially search for him; he wouldn't want a guest in his home to be greeted with a swarm of dust to irritate their sinus cavity. He even went to the extent of attempting interior decorating; he drove out to Centennial to purchase curtains from Ikea. As the sales clerk accumulated the curtains Stan appeared to show interest in, he tried to start up a friendly conversation; the clerk was curious about why he was purchasing curtains. Stan lied and said he was trying to impress his girlfriend who would be moving in soon. The clerk's eyes brightened and wheels began to spin in his head. His mouth was moving at full speed, he frantically dragged Stan through every isle; Stan ended up practically buying a new room, for a fortune no less. Luckily, money would not be a problem once he's dead, so he was content with his purchase. Stan prepared the visitor with a box of tissues next to his note, just in case. He originally planned on killing himself at home, but he'd rather not risk the chance of becoming ghost bound to his shitty apartment. Better safe than sorry. Instead, Stan decided to treat himself to a view, he was going to jump. A speck of crystalized rain plants itself upon the miserable young man's face. He looks up, almost toppling over glimpsing at his final destination: The Four Seasons Hotel, a forty-five story giant planted right on 14th Street. Its metallic exterior reflects the busy snowy streets. He did debate overdosing in one of its luxury rooms, but there is still a chance he may live… he'd rather not be a vegetable trapped within his desolate wasteland of a mind. He tensely walks himself towards the entrance grimacing at all the happy folks that make up the crowd. Out of all of the holidays celebrated during the year, Christmas had to have been Stan's favorite. However, nothing is exactly "perfect"… One thing he _absolutely_ despises about this holiday is the fact that it has become a societal obligation to stay as happy as possible during this month. "Santa Claus" always seemed to leave him a lump of coal in his stocking for as his dad had said, "being too mopey all the time". Before he makes his way inside the Hotel lobby, he stomps out his Balmorals to jostle out excess salt and sludge from the ridges that laced the bottom of his shoes. The hotel lobby was boxy in terms of interior. A rectangle staircase snaked upward to an additional lobby floor. The color pallet used within the confined area was warm and welcoming. The lobby was full of rich caramels and royal browns, a contrast of creamy white walls with large windows gave the lodge set-up a modern touch. A sense of relaxation passed through Stan like a fish traveling downstream.

"I hope you have a happy holiday, sir." An orderly-looking bell boy spat as he dashed around collecting luggage from vacationers to businessmen.

"Mhm" Stan grunts, not wanting to delve into small talk, but it didn't seem to matter considering how fast the erratic employee passed by. The elevators did not live up to Stan's expectations, the unique modernized layout toward the entrance told a different story to the creamy colored walls with laminated wood plastered upon them. Stan thought that the uncreative work of tiling was bland and unappealing. For how pricey a night's stay could be, Stan thought the elevators would be more glamourized than what had stoop before him. He pressed the plastic button which lit up signaling for one of the three stainless steel cable chariots to guide him to his death. A ping resonated and the silver door to his right slid open; three men in business attire filtered out jovially laughing about something that 'Carol' said. Stan awkwardly walked in, grinning at the three young men in recognition. In the process, he scuffs his shiny loafers between what seems to be a bottomless gap between the white tiled floor and the transportation platform. Before he tapped the top floor's button, he slipped a piece of mint-flavored gum into his mouth. He hated when his ears pop because of a change of altitude. Stan lets the strip of candy marinate in his saliva until his gut drops as the elevator pulls him up. His heart begins to pick up tempo with each floor he passes by. He grasps his burgundy and royal blue striped tie fiddling with it anxiously making sure it is perfectly symmetrical along his broad chest. The elevator fiercely dings at his stop; Stan takes a deep breath and makes his way down the hallway. Before the elevator door shuts, he spits his mint gum on the ground as if to mark his territory. He calmly waltzes up the emergency staircase, twists the dingy door knob ever so gently, and peeks through the crack as if he was intruding on someone. The snow had begun to fall at a steady pace, it was absolutely breathtaking, and the lighted hallway behind Stan made the snow twinkle like shooting stars dashing through the sky. It feels a few degrees chillier than it did earlier and the snow is beginning to accumulate in the nooks and crannies of the roof. As his eyes analyze the setting, he notices a figure on the ground similar to a humans, he directs his attention toward the limestone ledge. A lengthy young man stood upon it, he was stick thin and dressed in a ragged orange parka that looked two sizes too large. The hood was lined in matted fur; snow began to decorate the top of the (what Stan assumed was) synthetic fur. He extends is branch-like arms as if he were a bird expanding his wings, he staggers a bit having a tough time keeping his balance. He mutters something, but Stan can't tell what is being said; the young man chuckles and toggles left and right. His legs leave the ledge exposing the bottom of his sod-covered brown snow boots; Stan closes his eyes, he wouldn't want to intrude on this man's time alone. It seemed peculiar to Stan that another person would jump off the same ledge he would be jumping off of… The young man in the orange parka seemed to be fairly intoxicated, Stan rationalized that this event was a mishap for this unfortunate man, who lost control of his common sense in his drunken state. Either way, he couldn't go back in time and change the situation. Stan makes his way toward the ledge teeth chattering from the bone chilling Colorado weather. He plops his bottom on the icy brick ledge and pulls out a flask that has seen better days. Stan had been able to get a hold of a bottle of _Jack_ _Daniel's Macallan Fine and Rare_, he promised himself only to drink it on a very special occasion. It is one of the rarest brands of bourbon still in existence. A takes a swig and lets the alcoholic delicacy attack his taste buds. A crisp crunch causes Stan to jolt a bit.

"Oh." A snidely masculine voice mutters, "I…um a-are you here to… jump?"

Stan whips around and meets eyes with another male who looks about the same age as Stan. A few of his wavy red locks peek out through his lime green ushanka, his face is flushed from wind burn. His plaid scarf flows sporadically between brisk breezes.

"You can't get me to change my mind." Stan chuckles agitatedly and purses his lips to the top of the flask and downs another guzzle of his sweet bourbon.

"Well, is there room for two?" Stan's eyes widen at the other male. He begins to feel irritated; it's going to take a lot more than a little reverse psychology to persuade Stan not to commit suicide. Four Seasons was definitely not a hotspot for suicides. Stan checks his wrist watch:

9:48…

"I'm following a schedule so you can go on ahead." The redhead takes a seat beside Stan; he stares down at the streetlights below them.

"You were here first, I wouldn't want to cut. Anyways, I want to take in the scenery before I skydive to Oblivion."

"Fair Enough." Stan is certain that this guy is bullshitting him. He won't call him out on it though; he tucks his flask back into the pocket of his dampened blazer and slouches. "I'll take the plunge at exactly 10:00 PM." There wasn't specific reason that Stan chose this time, however, he does prefer the night better than the day. He just doesn't like what day is associated with: a new beginning, purity, happiness… To Stan, that's all a load of crap.

The male beside him had a rather large nose; it wasn't unflattering, just very distinguished. He had a slim figure; it wasn't the kind of slim where it was alarming, he could tell that the freckled man was toned. He must be doing a sport of some sort. The redhead glances up at Stan and progressed to place the ebony haired man's bulky hand within his own. "My name is Kyle Broflovski, pleasure to be the last person you meet." Stan returned the friendly gesture.

"Stan. Stan Marsh, nice to meet you as well." The two sit in silence, the sound of wind filling their ear drums. A shrill beep breaks the silence making Kyle grimace. "Sorry that was my watch, I guess it's time." Kyle's eyes widen in shock, he probably can't believe Stan is actually going to jump. Stan imagines he is probably trying to formulate a witty speech that will send Stan into grave realization that he's making a terrible decision.

"Oh, Okay! Here, I'll wait over by the door, or if you would feel more comfortable, I could wait inside." Kyle replies; Stan can't believe what he just heard, is he still trying the reverse psychology method?

He rubs his nose and gives Kyle an incredulous look. "Yeah, if you could do that, that'd be great." Kyle gave a lighthearted smile. Stan felt a little warm and fuzzy, maybe that's the alcohol talking.

"See you in the afterlife." Kyle disappears behind the steel door and Stan is once again, alone. He ruffles his hair and takes a deep breath; he gets on his feet and closes his eyes. He can't help but shine a giddy grin upon his face; all the pain and suffering will be over.

He will only be a memory.

He wouldn't be Stan, the kid who threw up on every girl, the failure product of divorced parents, the unmotivated vessel that cared less about school and more about when he would die, the sibling who didn't go to college, the son who would steal his father's liquor, and he won't have to risk being a carbon copy of his dad.

A squeak echoes behind him, Kyle hurriedly stumbles towards the ledge and delicately pulls up a soggy sheet of paper. "Sorry, sorry! Just dropped my note!" The ink was beginning to blur, Kyle shouted, "God Dammit!"

"Is there a line to jump?"

Stan and Kyle simultaneously turn their heads to the door. Stan sits back down on the ledge in annoyance, Kyle stares in bewilderment at the raven haired woman in front of them standing awkwardly by the entrance to the roof. She is petite and fawn-like with long dazzling legs emphasized by her long black faux suede heels. Her dark purple trench pea coat shapes her sides, and her hair sways gracefully keeping a constant momentum. Kyle returns his eyes to his beloved note and meticulously examines the words on the page making sure it was still legible. Without looking up, he gives the pretty young lady an introduction "Well, this here is Stan and he was just about to jump. Then, I came along and what a surprise! I am going to jump tonight too! Then, I dropped my fucking suicide note in the snow! Of _all _the things to ruin! I spent _two years_ drafting and redrafting and finalizing this stupid letter! For fucks sake, I just wanted to make a goddamn statement in society… Anyways, I guess that makes um… you lucky number three. Kyle Broflovski, it's a pleasure to die with you"

The graceful dane looks to her right, as if there was something extraordinary over in that direction. She is at a loss of words, too flustered by the unexpected turn of events.

"My name is… Wendy Testaburger, It's a pleasure to be of your acquaintances…" She slides a strand of her silky hair behind her ear.

"Wendy, maybe you and I should find another building. Stan has a schedule to follow you know." Kyle grumbles as he is attempting to dry his letter.

Stan settles himself off the ledge of no return and joins the other two suicidals digressing from his plan. "No, no, it's fine guys, I'll just jump from my apartment building."

"No! Don't leave Stan! I'll find another spot to kill… kill… k-"she gulps nervously, "ki-, well, you know _what _from! I was the last one to show up, after all." Wendy gives Stan an affirmative shake of the head.

"Technically, it _is_ ladies' first…" Kyle remarks.

"Are you really going to try to put light of this situation?" Wendy growls and Kyle rolls his eyes, ignoring her defensive blathering.

Stan groans and looks back down at his wrist watch:

10:15 PM.

Stan is now fifteen minutes behind schedule. Fifteen minutes ago, he was supposed to be a decimated pile of goopy entrails, not listening to two people argue about who dies first.

"Why the HELL are you people up here?!" A young blonde with luscious curly locks shrieks. She's dressed in an outrageously hideous furry white coat with a shiny black cocktail dress underneath. Her wedges are caked in powdery snow, or is it something else?

The trio looks at her, and then looks back at each other. "Why are YOU on the roof?" The trio question.

The blonde purses her seductive, red, glossy lips and scoffs, "It…It doesn't matter…"She sticks her nose in the air and pouts her lips dramatically; she crosses her arms and looks as if she's about to have a temper tantrum.

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose and squints his eyes. Only _he _could run into a bunch of nut jobs on top of a roof on Christmas Eve about to commit suicide. He pulls out his dented flask and gulps down more bourbon, hoping he might get somewhat drunk off of it. Kyle huffs then puts his hands on his head. He growls in frustration and lets his hands slowly rub his face. He then looks over at Stan.

"Okay… you know what? It doesn't even matter… Stan, are you still going to jump?" Kyle is now wearing a serious face, trying his hardest not to lose his temper.

Stan sighs again and grunts "I think I'll just try jumping again tomorrow, I'm way off schedule now." He sloppily slurps another swig of liquor, a tiny stream of alcohol rolls down Stan's chin.

"Then I guess it's my turn." Kyle nervously replies.

"We might as well start a club." Stan slurs and he begins toggling off towards the door.

"Wait, you guys are going to, like, kill yourselves?!" The blonde obnoxiously shouts with fear in her tone.

"No, we met up here to have a fucking therapy session." Kyle says in annoyance, "I would ask you why you're up here but no, no, no, that is much _too_ personal." He gives Wendy a snarky look. Wendy looks away, unamused by his sarcasm.

The attractive blonde female stumbles over her own feet and blocks the doorway, prevent Stan from leaving. Stan slouches, slightly amused by the girl's pathetic attempt of stopping him. "Yes?" He questions dumbly.

"I can't let you guys die." The blonde bluntly announces. She looks down to the ground, avoiding Stan's gaze.

"Who are you to decide who dies, and who doesn't?" Stan snaps. The alcohol is beginning to create a foggy haze on Stan's senses, affecting his composure. The girl shrinks down a bit, "Because now, I have to, like, live knowing who you people are. If your deaths make the news, I will totally know who they're talking about. I'll probably become a freak and have to pay for therapy. Then, like, I'll commit suicide and it will be all your guys' faults!" She falters, "You can't!" She shouts, her voice on the verge of tears.

Stan chuckles and shoves the blonde away from the doorway, the distraught women topples into the snow whining in pain. Her face scrunches up and she begins to have a fit, "Don't YOU know who I AM?! I'm BEBE STEVENS! I can make your life a living HELL!" Tears stream down her face, mascara begins to melt; the once attractive girl has now become an eyesore.

Wendy gasps in realization at Bebe's name. "She's the mayor's daughter…" She takes a couple steps back and leans on the ledge in disbelief.

Stan bursts out laughing; he looks down at Bebe with a shit-eating grin. "I'm already living in Hell, so I guess your wish came true." He sniffles and takes another swig from his flask, only to realize it's empty. He shakes the flask, relinquishing every last drop of liquid. He smacks his lips in satisfaction.

The Next thing Stan knows he is lying flat on the ground, his back aches and there's an unrecognized voice screeching to be let go of.

"PLEASE! LET ME GO! OH GOD, I'M TOO LATE….. THE SPIRITS ARE ON TO ME! GO AWAY EVIL SPIRITS! YOU CAN'T WIN IF I'M DEAD! TOOO MUCH PRESSSUUUUUUURRRRREEEE!"

"You need to CALM DOWN!"

"It's not even logical to think there are evil spirits after you!"

"Yeah and there's kind of a fucking line here you're going to have to wait-"

"MAKE HIM STOP, MAKE HIM STOP, MAKE HIM STOP! I'M CALLING THE POLICE!"

"DON'T! THE COPS WILL KILL ME! THEY'VE BEEN AFTER ME FOR YEARS! I'VE SEEN THEIR! GAH! HANDIWORK OF SECURITY CAMERAS! I DIDN'T MEAN TO TAKE TWO MINTS! I DIDN'T MEAN IT!"

"Bebe! Whatever you do, DON'T call the police! How am I can't jump if I'm on suicide watch!"

Stan lifts him top half up and turns around to investigate the commotion. A scraggly feral-looking kid is swaying about, trying to break free of Wendy and Kyles' grip. He's missing a coat and his button up shirt has been buttoned up the wrong way. Bruises and scars decorate his sickly pale skin. His hair is wild and uncared for. His eyes are large and dilated- Stan assumes he's on drugs.

"PLEASE DON'T EAT ME, PLEASE DON'T EAT ME, PLEASE DON'T EAT ME, PLEASE DON'T EAT ME, PLEASE DON'T EAT ME, PLEASE DON'T EAT ME, PLEASE DON'T EAT MEEEEEEEEEEEE" The insane man cries over and over again.

"Do SOMETHING!" Bebe shrieks in horror making no attempt to help Kyle and Wendy.

"Stan! There is a shawl inside of my purse! Grab it and wrap it around his mouth!" Wendy shouts over the frantic wails of the panicked male.

Stan jumps up and runs over to Wendy's purse. It's a Coach; he fiddles with the zipper and pulls out a long, black shawl. He then goes over Kyle and Wendy who are beginning to lose energy keeping the man down. Stan hurriedly ties a gag around the male.

"Hold his nose Stan!" Wendy instructs.

"Why the hell would I do that?! I don't want to _kill _him!" Stan looks as if he just saw a monster.

"It won't kill him, idiot! He'll just, like, pass out!" Bebe states in a snobby tone.

Stan presses his fingers against the man's narrow nose. The man's face begins to go red and his eyes look as if they'll pop out; he loses steam, becoming easier to pin down. Suddenly, he's flat as a board and Kyle and Wendy let go. Stan puts his hands on his head "What the HELL just happened?!"

"Well, as you were making your way down the stairs, this man trampled you and you were out like a light. He tried to jump the ledge but Kyle wouldn't let him go because it was HIS turn." Wendy gives Kyle a look and continues "He then begins to squirm and scream the most preposterous accusations I had ever heard in my life! Something about aliens, then gnomes that steal underwear! Apparently, someone named Craig made his pet attack him. He kept on bringing up the police; he said that they're here…" Wendy explained.

"DENVER PD! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" A gentleman in uniform shouted at the group hoisting a gun in their general direction. He glanced over at the blonde haired man on the ground, noticing he was gagged and not moving. The group of four instantaneously sticks their hands in the air.

"You are all coming with me!" He shouted; he used his free hand to buzz in to his radio "We have four suspects on top of the roof. There seems to be one hosta-"

"One hostage?!" Kyle shrieks.

"You have the right to remain SILENT JEW-NOSE!" The cop growls.

Stan really just wanted to die.

So What'd ya think? I'd appreciate a review or two… Until Next time! ***


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